


Earth Boys Dream of Outer Space

by QuiveringSunset



Category: X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Based on the video game, Character dealing with emotional trauma, Charles Has Issues, Erik has Issues, Happy Ending, Kindof a retelling but with mutants, M/M, Multi, Outer Space, Space zombies, They can work out their issues together, but also still mutants, eventually, mutants are aliens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuiveringSunset/pseuds/QuiveringSunset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The galaxy is trapped in an endless cycle of extinction. Every 50,000 years, an ancient evil wipes out all advanced civilization, leaving behind only ruins, and destroys all evidence of their own existence. Few believe this ancient legend. Alliance Commander Charles Xavier, however, knows it to be true. </p>
<p>Along with his squad of misfits and outcasts, Commander Xavier embarks on a desperate race across a galaxy in turmoil, his only imperative to preserve the safety of life in the galaxy, at any cost. </p>
<p>A Mass Effect re-telling, X-men style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologe: A No-Win Situation

**Skyllian Verge. Colony of Elysium. Year 2176.**

**Hour 4**

-

_They're going to talk about this one day._

A random thought, the kind that filters into the mind when it ought to be focused on other, more important things. The kind of thought that shouldn't be happening at a time like this, but somehow makes it past all the madness and insanity to camp out right in front. The kind of thought that says you've already lost your mind if this is what you've started to think about.

His fingers fumble over the loading clip for the Diamond rifle, and Alliance First Lieutenant Charles Xavier curses as he tries to open the damned thing. The manufacturers at Vorn-Kedar hadn't designed it for quick reloads, but that isn't surprising considering how much ammo a single heat-sink provides. It's a weapon only meant for being flashy. They hadn't taken into account the need for efficiency in a chaotic, hellish combat situation. Which, really, why would they?

Missiles are screaming past overhead and there is an endless rattle of gunfire interspersed with the deep, shuddering blasts of mortar impacts. The ground under him feels like the leftovers of a tornado, the pavement dug into deep craters and piles of jagged, slippery black stone. Charles' eyes keep moving all over, between his surroundings and the smoke-darkened sky overhead, watching for enemy recon or artillery drones.

And here he is, dragged out of shore leave and standing in the middle of a shit-storm, in armor he'd taken from the Marine depot, holding a rifle he pried from the fingers of a fallen soldier hours ago.

Now he stands alone, in the middle of the main road into Elysium, cut off from contact with any other Marine units protecting the city. A minefield of rubble surrounds him, a mix of destroyed cars, ruined buildings, and hastily-erected barricades assembled by the Marines before the airstrikes had killed them all.

They're out there, moving through the rubble of what used to be the outer capitol. Humanoid forms, blue-skinned shape-shifters, tall, tattooed metallokinetics, and the silver-plated hulking figures of colossus', the reflector cores of their suits standing out like beacons in the dust. He counts the number of contacts on his wrist-affixed HUD, and grimaces. One solider with a single rifle, standing against dozens - maybe hundreds - of raiders and pirates.

_This_ , Charles thinks, _is what one might call a no-win situation._

So crouching here, he has a decision to make: Take a stand - against impossible odds and an enemy that outnumbers and outguns him a hundred to one - or fall back, retreat, and maybe, _maybe,_ survive.

There's movement in the distance, a sudden flurry of gunfire from at least six different locations out towards the barricades. It's suppressive fire, an attempt by what's left of the pinned-down Marines to grab some ground, gain some room for maneuvering out of their precarious position. The raiders had started to swarm after the depot was taken, trapping them in a mire of broken vehicles and buildings. There has to be at least a hundred of these raiders out here...far too many for a legitimate fight. Especially with the Marine's scattered as they are, there's no way they'll hold out much longer.

If the enemy breaches this position, though...they'll get right to the heart of Elysium, where the citizens and innocent civilians are hunkered down, waiting for rescue.

_It'll be London all over again._

Charles' memories of that fight, of watching the lights of his childhood city go down and the fires go up through his own frightened young eyes; the terror of knowing that if the pirates got through to where you'd hid, if they found you and caught you...

Well, you didn't want them to catch you.

The decision is made.

His breath comes faster, his mind letting loose a controlled dose of fury, as he shoulders the rifle and narrows down the sights.

So long as he still draws breath, so long as he holds the line, Elysium will _not_ become another London.

~*~

**Hour 7**

The Diamond's heat-sinks have started to run low, so he discards them by throwing them over his shoulder. The rifle itself has started to melt due to near-constant overheating, but Charles is holding out for as long as he can before he switches to the next one, another Diamond rifle recovered from another fallen Marine. He's saving his best find for when he really needs it, an Elkoss Magnate with a powerful heat sink and caustic ammo mods.

The pirates had tried two more pushes, and he'd stopped them each time. He used every dirty trick in the book of guerilla warfare that he knew of: mines, traps, surprise attacks. More than one wrecked car still had a working fuel core, which he had jerry-rigged to explode, turning them into massive bombs.

When the pirates used satellite strikes to brush him from his cover, he took shelter behind the bodies of slain Marines and mercs, some of whom still had active shields powered by their suits. His heart is still pounding even after a lull in the fighting - about fifteen minutes now. A fifteen minutes during which he's been calling up reinforcements, shouting through the static of his comm unit between reports of enemy troops assaulting other Marine positions across the city. The raiders are being slowed, pulling back bit by bit. The Alliance is coming, and every minute Charles can hold them off, can buy some time for reinforcements, then -

There's a movement up ahead. Charles calms himself, takes a deep breath in and out, and raises the rifle.

And sees the rush of pirates storming the street, from _both_ sides, drawing fire from the pinned-down units, straight towards where he's hiding. It's a chokepoint, too narrow, and even as fire and shrapnel go off on either side of him, there aren't enough defensive tricks in the book to stop what's inevitably coming - the enemy, right towards him.

It's time for the Elkoss-Magnate, now.

Charles stands from his crouch and opens fire with the heavy weapon, cutting through the first wave of raiders and sending them to the ground, screaming. He's glad for such a brutally effective weapon; long bursts of fire to break the shields, then a hit with the caustic rounds. The enemy at the forefront, a shape-shifter, drops to the ground with a shriek that turns to a gurgle as the acidic ammunition does its work.

They're still advancing, though. Several teams push up his left flank, and Charles turns to suppress them, his shots hitting another charge that detonates heat and shrapnel that kills most of them, except for the colossus warrior, who doesn't even flinch as the caustic bullets bounce harmlessly off his silver skin and shields. There is a reason that colussus' are so prized in combat. They're near indestructible except under direct, prolonged fire, which Charles has neither the time nor resources for.

The hulking, grotesquely-muscled form of the colossus becomes visible through the smoke of debris, charging up faster than Charles is ready for. He whirls on the enemy, finger pressed firmly to the trigger of his automatic weapon.

But the colossus doesn't even flinch.

Instead, it jumps; leaps up on top of a burnt-out vehicle so that it's standing right above Charles' hiding spot.

He falls back as the colossus rips the ground around him apart with shotgun bursts, ducking behind an overturned car. The colossus keeps firing, more out of mindless fury than anything else, and moments later its weapon begins to overheat, steam rising off the barrel as it shuts itself down. Charles takes the opportunity to roll around the side of his cover car and throw a grenade - his last grenade - right at the base of the vehicle the colossus is standing on. It detonates, and flights the colossus off its feet.

Two more shape-shifters are moving up on his opposite side. Charles spots them in his HUD, but can't turn to fire, as he's focused on taking out another colossus not twenty meters off. The shape-shifters come around his cover, weapons raised, only to be blasted by his emergency failsafe, the charges he'd set up right behind him in the event his position was breached.

But still they keep coming, more and more in a seemingly endless stream as they try to flank and pin him down with intense fire. He falls back, again, twisting and shooting wherever he can, diving for cover behind anything that seems like it might last more than a few moments, might buy him a few seconds...

Then there's a shadow. The colossus from before, dark spots of discoloration blooming under its metallic-plated skin like large weeping bruises. It has a knife in its hand, and lets out a feral snarling sound as it lashes out towards Charles' face.

His visor is broken, helmet flung back.

And there's pain.

And blood.

Charles is distantly aware that he's screaming, and there's the sound of electricity in his ears; pulses being fired down over sensitized nodes, the triggering of a chip that warps reality - that spends his power into electric action - and as he reels, blood sliding across his face, he lashes out with his mind. There's a cracking sound for a moment, a burst of blue-white light, and then it fizzles out.

The colossus' silver armor, and the body inside it, has caved in. Its corpse spins as it falls, collapsing like crushed aluminum into the dust.

A roar comes, from somewhere. But not the roar of missiles.

His body shakes, his armor vibrating right down to the bones, then -

Then, darkness.

~*~

~*~

"Commander?"

Charles turns away from the view of Earth through the observation window, shaking himself free of the memory.

"My apologies, Oliver. I was reminiscing."

The Lieutenant holds out a mug of processed caffeine. Charles nods a thanks and takes it, inhaling the aroma of bergamot and lemon. A quick sip shows it to be hot and fresh, and, though not at all tasting like _real_ tea, it is still strong enough to corrode the shuttle's paint.

"What about, if you don't mind me asking?"

Charles shakes his head. "The battle that got me this posting."

Oliver nods, "Ah, the Blitz." His face falls. "Sorry, I know how ugly it was back there. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"It's no problem. I was already thinking about it anyway." Charles crosses the small shuttle's passenger compartment and looks out into the darkness of space. Up ahead, there is one of the orbital docking stations at Azure Base 5, and he can see several ships already docked to it, getting ready for takeoff into the void of space or moving into position to attach and unload. One particular ship catches Charles' eye.

"Is that her?"

Oliver joins the Commander at the window. He peers out, and spots the one that Charles means: a dagger-like frigate, painted blue and yellow.

"That's the one. The _SSV Westchester_."

_It looks good_ , Charles thinks. _Fast and agile, as a frigate should be._

The shuttle turns on a new heading, moving straight towards the station, and the view from the observation window shifts to show the empty blackness of space. The interior lights reflect off the transparent glass, and Charles catches their reflection as if in a mirror. Oliver, with his dark hair and slightly-plump figure stuffed inside his navy blue, gold-trimmed Alliance uniform. And Charles...

He stares at his own face: the vibrant blue of his eyes; the sweep of his brown hair, cut short in regulation length; the red smear of his mouth. And then the scar across his left eyebrow, over his eyelid, and down to his cheek. The scar that reminds everyone he meets just how he earned his stripes.

"This should be interesting, sir," Oliver says, sitting down in his seat. Lieutenant Commander Charles Xavier nods as he turns and settles into his own seat as well.

"I certainly hope you're wrong, Oliver. In my experience, 'interesting' typically doesn't end well."

"Just a shakedown run to Eden Prime. How bad could it really be?"

Charles only frowns, and peers out the porthole again, losing himself in the memory once more.

\------------

Notes: So this is me playing around with a lot of things...space!fic, action!fic, character personality switches (Charles Is the hard-ass for once, yay!), hot tattooed semi-mutant aliens...hopefully it will all work out =) Obviously, there is no knowledge of the game necessary to read this story, and if you have played it then lots of things will seem familiar to you

The next chapter will have more plot-stuffs and characters. Please let me know what you think!


	2. The Maiden Voyage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which we see some familiar faces, and meet some OC's

**The Citadel. Alliance council chambers. Year 2183.**

The knowledge that the sunlight filtering through the office windows is only an illusion, a trick of the Presidium's 'day cycle', doesn't stop it from feeling incredibly wrong to be having this type of meeting here, right in front of the windows. There isn't such a thing as night and day on a space station, but they do a damn good job of faking it. Just like they do a good job of pretending that this is something casual, instead of possibly the most important decision the Alliance has made for its future since signing the treaty that ended the First Contact War.

And people are passing right by for god's sake, the windows open wide enough to let the artificial breeze float right in...

Admiral Emma Frost would have preferred a closed room for this meeting. As it stands now, a simple microphone aimed in the right direction will pick up their conversation. And she isn't foolish enough to trust those new, supposedly soundproof plasma security barriers that Ambassador Hendry seems to have so much faith in.

Emma sighs and sips her coffee, waiting for her companions to return and thumbing through the potential candidates on her display screen. Truth be told, she and Capitan Munroe had already settled on their choice a week back. In private. In an _actual_ secured conference room. But, they have to sell their choice to Ambassador Hendry, who, like a classic politician, is more concerned with securing his own elected hide than what the military might think is the best choice.

She turns and looks 'outside', at the pristine white walkways of the Presidium that stretch out lazily beneath her; massive artificial rivers and lakes that run the length of the circular interior of the massive starship. The government wing of the Citadel stretches in both directions, gently curving upward in an oddly inverted horizon, the kind of distortion that comes from being inside a ring-shaped structure.

The door slides open, and Captain Ororo Munroe steps inside. She nods at Emma and sits down across from her at the conference table.

"I assume the Ambassador is taking his time, as per usual?" she asks.

Emma nods. Technically, she is the Captain's superior, but a deep-seated respect for Munroe's capabilities and judgment outweighs any sort of military protocol. The woman is a war-hero, for god's sake. Ororo had been the one to suggest their candidate in the first place, and Emma had immediately agreed.

"It's not like he has to care what we soldiers think," Emma says.

Ororo nods. "Well, while he's gone, I wanted to ask you something: Do you really think this time will be different? Do you think the Council has it in them to give the Alliance a second chance after what happened before?"

She's referring, of course, to her own past experience. If there's anyone in the Alliance who can understand what their proposed candidate is about to go through, it's Ororo "Storm" Munroe.

"I think that without that particular...individual...being involved, the Council might be more open this time around," Emma says. "Besides, back when you were being considered, the Alliance was a fourth the size it is now, and we're continuously growing. With the size of our fleet, the rate we're settling the Traverse, our victories at Elysium and Torfan...I think the Council has no choice but to give humans a consideration."

"I know that we really got their attention after we hammered those pirates at Elysium," Munroe agrees. "Still, I'm worried that they might try to exclude us again, simply because of the sheer amount of pressure they're getting."

"That _pressure_ is from species that are jealous of our accomplishments," comes a new voice, and both women look up to see Ambassador Hendry walk in. Unlike the two Alliance officers, he's wearing the generic-cut white suit and long shirt favored by the fashionable elite on the Prisidium. He joins them at the table and folds his hands together on top.

"Humanity has progressed more in thirty years than many of them have in centuries," he continues. "They're right to be nervous about us.

"And _this_ -" he jabs his finger on the table - "is how we prove how far we've come. They already snubbed us once when they rejected you, Captain, but they will _not_ snub us again."

"I'm sure they won't," Munroe says tightly, folding her arms. She glances at Emma, who is busy studying her nails with indifference, and shrugs a shoulder. Hendry is ambitious, mostly for himself but also for the future of humanity in general. It's his only redeeming quality as far as Emma is concerned.

Understandably, soldiers aren't fond of being used as political tools.

"So, have we narrowed it down to the last few choices?" Hendry asks, flipping Emma's display over to him. "What about this...Xavier? Tell me everything."

"He's Earth born," Ororo recites dutifully. "Thirty-five years old, single, mild psyonic capabilities channeled through biotic implants. His parents were killed in the War when raiders attacked London. He ran with a street gang - the Reds, I believe - for a while when he was young, then enlisted in the Alliance at eighteen. He also received the Medal of Valor for his work at Elysium."

"He's the only reason that colony is still standing," Emma adds, as if an afterthought. "He managed to hold off the entire army of raiders until reinforcements arrived."

"Well, we certainly can't fault his courage." Hendry considers for a moment, then frowns as he continues reading. "He was at Torfan as well? I see his platoon took the brunt of the casualties."

"Eighty percent loss," Ororo confirms. "But none of the enemy survived."

"Aggressive." Hendry sounds almost approving, as if losing nearly an entire Alliance platoon is an acceptable casualty of war. "I like that. But his psych tests mark him as potentially unstable. There are some accusations that his psyonic capabilities make him susceptible to...letting feelings cloud his judgment."

Emma, a psyonic herself, merely raises an eyebrow.

Ororo simply says, "He gets the job done, sir."

"And you're sure he can handle it?"

"Absolutely. Truthfully, sir, I don't think there's anyone else who _can_ handle it." The last part is said with genuine honesty, a rare for Capitan Munroe, who holds her personal feelings close to the chest tight enough to rival Emma at times.

"Very well," Hendry says, and flashes the officers a rare smile. "I'll make the call."

~*~

**_SSV Westchester._ Four weeks later.**

Lieutenant Alex Summers can hear the heavy sounds of breathing from clear across the cargo bay as he steps off the elevator. It isn't hard to figure out who's making the noise, as there's no one else in the bay at this hour of the _Westchester's_ night cycle. Alex follows the noise, circling around the low, hunched form of the M-15 Vanguard infantry fighting vehicle mounted on the starboard side of the cargo bay, and finds a small cleared area set up as a makeshift gym; a small bench with weights of varied sizes and a pull-up bar overhead. The sounds in question are coming from the man hanging from the pull-up bar, legs wrapped around the bar itself, curling his upper body towards his knees with his abdominal muscles.

"Thirty-five..." Alex hears him say as he flexes his muscles up, then slowly lowers himself back down. "Thirty-six..."

Alex waits as the Commander finishes his set of reps. He himself can do a good forty inverted pull-ups before he gets tired, and he finds himself suddenly vowing to practice more. And telling himself that the only reason he can't do more is because they aren't part of his personal morning PT sessions.

As the Commander drops back down, he looks up at Alex, and nods.

"Good evening, Lieutenant," Xavier says, wiping sweat off his brow.

"Evenin', Commander."

"Was there something you needed, Lieutenant...Summers, yes?"

"Yes, sir." Alex watches as Xavier dabs a towel over his neck and shoulders, noting the small, almost unnoticeable black bulb at the base of his hairline, right where his skull meets his spine. "Capitan Munroe wanted me to let you know that we just released from docking bay about fifteen minutes ago. We should be hitting the Arcturus Prime Relay in about an hour. She wants you on the bridge then."

"Understood. Anything else?"

"She, uh..." And now Alex is rubbing the back of _his_ neck, because this was what has been bugging him for the past hour. "She says to prep your combat uniform. Not sure why she wants you in armor, but I got the impression that she's expecting something. She told me and Jenkins to be ready too."

"Alright. Is that all?"

Alex pauses. "Officially, yeah..." He hesitates whether he should say more. But something about Xavier's face; those intense blue eyes and that scar - _oh god, Alex, don't look at the scar_ \- says that any comment that may affect the mission are invited. Or encouraged. Or required. "Jakob Tahrenk was asking about you. Again."

"I see. What did he want?"

"He was, uh, just looking for you, I guess." Alex says. "Hard to tell. Those metallokinetics are hard to get a read on, you know?"

"Hm," Xavier replies. He drops the towel down on the bench and cracks his neck. "I'll see what he wants. Is that all?"

"Yes, sir. I'll...see you on deck, Commander. I'm on bridge duty with Banshee - with Cassidy, I mean. It's his nickname, from the Academy, I think..."

Xavier only stares at him.

_Right_. Alex executes a quick salute and moves back around the Vanguard towards the elevator, trying not to break into a flat-out run.

~*~

Charles sits back down on the workout bench and takes a drink of water from the bottle he stashed behind it, considering what Summers' had said. What could Jakob Tahrenk want with him this time? It seems that everywhere he turns, the mysterious metallokinetic is there, watching him. The _Westchester_ is only a frigate - and a tightly-packed one at that - but even with such cramped space, running into the same person more than just a few times is beyond coincidence. It's all very strange.

_Though truthfully, Charles, you're just looking for more red flags to fuel your suspicion._

No, he doesn't trust Tahrenk. The alien isn't Alliance military, and thus isn't part of Captain Munroe's crew, making him the odd one out in an otherwise exclusively human ship. And despite the prevailing scientific theory that all the species in the known galaxy are related, that they share a common ancestor...metallokinetics stick out like a sore thumb: human-shaped, but with a lean, almost unnatural muscular leanness that is rather feline in nature.

And those tattoos...Charles runs a hand almost absently down the scar over his left eye. They say the tattoos that run all over their body are clan-markings; a way to designate themselves as distinct branches of the ruling hierarchy, referred to as the Iron Brotherhood. Frankly, it reminds Charles of war paint.

He gets up and grabs his water, cutting across the bay and into the elevator that connects the lower decks of the _Westchester_ \- cargo, armory, and engineering - with the crew sections and the command deck. The elevator begins its achingly slow ascent up to the next level.

What puts him most on edge is that Tahrenk isn't part of the Brotherhood's military either. He's a Spectre, an elite covert agent and direct representative of the Citadel Council. Why is a Citadel agent riding along on a simple shakedown run? Sure, the _Westchester_ is cutting-edge technology; the first actual stealth-capable spacecraft in the collective history of the Citadel. But while that is undeniably a big deal, it doesn't necessarily merit a Spectre's presence.

Then again, a stealth ship would be a boon to any Spectre's operation. Should a Spectre seek to use it as his or her personal transport...The _Westchester_ has an all-human crew, which would give the Alliance a very hefty chip in the balance of galactic power. Some facets of the design are metallokinetic in nature - the hull, the weapons - but the Tantalus Drive Core and the stealth systems had been developed almost exclusively by human scientists.

Once off the elevator, Charles passes the mess hall and nods to acknowledge the few off-duty crew that are gathered at the small table between the elevator and crew quarters. It's a rather unglamorous set up: just a dozen sleeping pods built into the ship's wall like gray bubbles, some with their opaque tops sealed shut to indicate the current round of crew members catching rack time.

Spectres. They have a dreamy quality about them, along the lines of old-Earth cowboys and secret agents combined into one above-the-law, Council-sanctioned, gun-toting package. The Alliance has been trying to get a human into the Spectre's for a long time. Charles knows he's been put forward as a potential candidate, but honestly he's not holding his breath. He's a soldier, not an assassin. He isn't built towards undercover, solitary covert operations. His is the mind of a tactician built into the body of a weapon; he can do more for humanity as an arm of the Alliance, defending colonies and protecting an Earth that is in many ways still recovering from the War.

Charles strips off his sweaty training outfit and climbs into one of the crew showers, letting the cool water run over his tired muscles. Warm jets of air automatically turn on to start the drying process after about five minutes - the showers are built for efficiency rather than comfort.

Afterwards, he stands in front of the mirror and examines his reflection through the haze of steam. Alliance regulations of facial hair for soldiers aren't as strict as they are for those in command stations on Earth, and a lot of troops keep goatees or mustaches. Normally, he might allow his hair to grow a little long; keep some small amount of shadow.

He considers a moment, then shaves back the stubble of beard growth, pressing the blade right down to the skin. He dresses in his clean-pressed day uniform, aligning the creases in perfect angles from his shoulders and knees.

He wants to be ready for whatever awaits him.

~*~

_"The Arcturus Prime Relay is in range. Initiating transmission sequence."_

Banshee's voice blares over the ship-wide intercom, his tone unusually serious as he announces their approach to the first mass relay. Maybe he isn't the complete goof-off that Charles had taken him for.

_"We are connected. Now calculating destination."_

Charles makes his way up the stairs from the crew station into the _Westchester's_ CIC - combat information center - set aft off the bridge. A raised circular platform of orange consoles overlook the entire area, with a dais at the front for the navigator. At the center is a massive hologram, showing a sensor map of the local relay, quickly growing larger the closer the _Westchester_ gets to it.

Marines salute him as he passes by. Unlike the crew, Charles wears dark blue battle armor, shoulders plated with the yellow-gold stripes in Alliance colors with his sidearm holstered at his hip and assault rifle affixed to his back.

_"The relay is hot. Now acquiring approach vector."_

Charles nods as he passes Oliver, who returns the gesture before going back to work at the nav station. The entire crew is on edge, intently monitoring their screens as the _Westchester_ attempts its first, maiden mass relay jump. Charles walks past them and heads up to the corridor connecting the CIC and the bridge.

_"All stations, secure for transit."_

On either side of the crew corridor are chairs set before large holographic monitors, with crew members working on various shipboard operations. Like the CIC crew, the personnel manning these stations are watching their monitors closely, keeping an eye on every system of the ship in case something goes wrong. This is a shakedown, but it's also an opportunity to test a cutting-edge piece of technology.

_"The board is green. Approach sequence has begun."_

The ship vibrates faintly as Banshee prepares the _Westchester's_ engines for forward acceleration as they approach the Arcturus Prime Relay.

Charles peers out the forward windows, at the enormous, double-pronged dagger just sitting out there in the blackness. The mass relay - one of several located throughout all corners of the known galaxy. They say the relays are relics of an ancient civilization who mastered space travel long before humans were even a blip on the galactic radar; before metallokinetics, bioborgs, or even shape-shifters, who are the oldest and most long-lives species currently known.

_"Hitting the relay in three..."_

The _Westchester_ draws closer, and the light becomes so intense for a moment that the bridge windows compensate by dimming themselves almost black to block out the brightness.

"Two..."

Lightening sparks off the ship's shields, and arc of energy surrounding it like a ball of blue light.

"One..."

There's a surge of energy, an intense shuddering that runs through the entire ship, and then -

They're gone.

In the blink of an eye, the _Westchester_ has gone from one galaxy to another, traveling hundreds of light years in an instant.

Charles looks around the bridge, then back down the crew corridor. Everything seems to be secure. Crewmembers visibly relax, smiles and muffled sighs of relief now that the _Westchester's_ first, historic hurdle has been crossed.

Well, they all hadn't died horribly.

That's a start.


	3. The Spectre

**_SSV Westchester_ ** **bridge**

"Thrusters are green," reports the gangly, red-haired man sitting in the pilot's chair. The holographic monitors surrounding the station bathe his skin in an orange glow, making his freckles stand out like dark spots under a black light. "Navigation is green. Internal emission heat sink engaged. All systems are online, and..." He pauses, fingers flying over the screens. "We're drifting, just under fifteen hundred K."

"Fifteen hundred is good," comes a deep, accented voice from behind Charles.

Looming just outside the bridge is Tahrenk, towering over them all by a good foot in his crimson armor, his tattoos standing out like a mask of white and red tribal lines across his nose and brow. His green eyes seem to glitter as he looks down at the three humans assembled before him.

"Your Capitan will be pleased," he says, giving Charles a long glance and nod before turning around a leaving. There's silence on the bridge for several seconds, until the Spectre is out of earshot. Then -

"I hate that guy," Banshee mutters.

In the co-pilot's seat, Alex snorts. "He just gave you a compliment, so you hate him?"

"Look, you remember to zip your fly before leaving the bathroom, that's good. I just shot us halfway across the galaxy and hit a target the size of a pinhead. That's incredible!" He shakes long, wavy-haired head. "Besides, Spectres are trouble. I don't like having him on board. Call me paranoid."

"You're paranoid," Alex says. "The Council helped fund this project. They have a right to send someone to keep an eye on their investment."

"Yeah, that the _official_ story. Only idiots believe the _official_ story."

"They certainly don't send Spectres on shakedown runs," Charles comments. Banshee nods vigorously.

"Exactly. I'm telling you, there's more going on here than -"

_"Cassidy,"_ comes a serious female voice over the intercom, making the three men reflexively straighten. _"Status report."_

"Just cleared the mass relay, Captain. Stealth systems are engaged. Everything looks solid."

_"Good. Find us a comm buoy and link us into the network. I want mission reports relayed back to Alliance brass before we reach Eden Prime."_

"Yes, ma'am." Banshee considers for a moment, then adds. "You might want to prepare yourself, ma'am, but I think Tahrenk is headed your way."

There's a pause, then,

_"He's_ already _here, Lieutenant."_ Munroe's frown is audible in her tone. Banshee cringes and Alex mouths 'oops' _"Tell Commander Xavier to meet me in the comm room for debriefing."_

"On my way," Charles says, and starts back down the crew corridor.

"Is it just me," Charles hears Banshee say, "Or does the Capitan always seem pissed off?"

"Only when she's talking to you, Sean," Alex replies.

~*~

Charles hurries down the corridor as fast as he can without actually breaking into a run. Things aren't adding up, and he has a suspicion that Munroe is about to tell him something that will fit it all the moving pieces into place. Usually, operations briefings require all department heads to be present, but this one seems to just be intended for himself, Munroe, and Tahrenk...

"He just walked by, like he was on a mission," a voice drifts over from the CIC, Oliver talking to someone over his console intercom.

_"He's a Spectre. They're always on a mission."_ Chief Adams, the _Westchester's_ head engineer. _"You should relax, Oliver, or you'll give yourself an ulcer."_

Oliver closes the channel as Charles draws closer.

"Looks like we had a good trip through the relay, Commander. Everything's running green."

"I heard you talking about our metallokinetic guest."

"Just having a chat with Adams, sir. Didn't mean to cause any trouble."

"I'm not accusing you of trying," Charles says. "If you have concerns, speak freely."

"Well, it's just..." Oliver glances over his shoulder towards the comm room. He lowers his voice. "This doesn't add up."

"A Spectre on a shakedown run doesn't make sense, I agree."

"Yeah," Oliver rubs the back of his neck. "But there's more to it. We're just supposed to be testing the new stealth systems, so why is Capitan Munroe in charge? Don't get me wrong - she's great - but she's got a...reputation, you know? We don't need her for a shakedown. And we're fully staffed. Why would the Alliance spend so much money and risk security leaks just to have a full crew on board instead of just the engineers?"

Charles nods. "I agree, something's up. I'll talk with the Capitan when I see her and get some answers."

"Yes, sir," Oliver replies. Charles moves past him and around the CIC.

Time to find out the truth of this shakedown run.

~*~ 

The communications room is one of the larger individual compartments of the _Westchester,_ primarily because it serves as the briefing and meeting area for the ship's officers and senior enlisted personnel. It is primarily secured by a series of electronic countermeasures, sound-proofing walls and anti-surveillance devices. Other than the Capitan's cabin on the top deck, it's the most secure room on the ship.

As Charles walks in, he sees the holographic screen at the center of the conference table displays a panoramic view of a meadow; a rolling green field with what look like livestock - Earth cows and sheep - and dotted by large white water towers. As he watches, a tractor drone passes over a field of crops, kicking up dust.

Eden Prime.

Standing in front of the screen is the red and black form of Tahrenk, who turns towards the door as it slides shut behind Charles.

"Commander Xavier," he says. "I was hoping you would get here first. I wanted to have a bit of a talk before your Captain arrives."

"About?" Charles steps forward to face Tahrenk properly, facing him calmly and evenly despite their rather obvious difference in height.

The corner of the metallokinetic's mouth twitches up a bit.

"This world we're headed for. Eden Prime." He gestures to the peaceful scene playing out on the screen. "I've heard it's quite beautiful."

"I wouldn't know," Charles allows himself a small shrug. "I've never been."

"But you've heard of it, yes? As I understand, it's something of a symbol among your people. Proof that humanity can settle new worlds, establish new colonies in the Traverse, and protect them." His green eyes are oddly bright. "But how safe is it. Really?"

Charles isn't a xenophobe, not in any stretch of the word. He will always favor humanity, of course, but he's seen enough battle with various species - on both his side and the enemy's - to know that an individual's usefulness extends beyond their biology. It's the personality that matters.

But that doesn't mean that some species aren't frustrating at times. Like now.

Metallokinetics are difficult to read. Their faces are like masks; their expressions almost never change, and their tattoos often give them an aggressive air that isn't entirely accurate most of the time. Until it is, and then the switch is flipped so fast that most people never see it coming. Between that, and their deep, oddly metallic-sounding voices, it's hard to tell what they're thinking.

"What are you suggesting?" Charles asks. It sounded as though Tahrenk was making a threat. But he could also just be asking a question. Again, sometimes it's hard to distinguish the difference. If there's even one in the first place.

"The galaxy can be a very dangerous place, Xavier. Is humanity truly ready to operate on the galactic stage?"

Charles clenches his jaw, his scar feeling like an open wound for the first time in a long while as he fights not to mention that heknows _exactly_ how bad it can get out in the Traverse when human colonies are attacked.

Tahrenk is trying to push his buttons. Trying to rile him up and poke at his weak spots to see how he'll react. There's a universal gleam in the alien's bright green eyes. He's intrigued.

Charles opens his mouth to respond, when the door hisses open and Captain Munroe walks into the room. They both look up.

"I think the Commander is tired of games, Tahrenk," she says. "It's time we told him what's really going on."

It's almost impossible to describe the amount of respect that Charles has for Captain Ororo "Storm" Munroe. She is quite possibly the most decorated ship commander the Alliance has ever seen, and she's earned every single medal and award she's received over her career. She started as a grunt; a Marine like Charles, and fought her way through all the big military campaigns the Alliance waged during the thirty-ought bloody years following the War. There is no one he would rather serve under for his first Command. In his opinion, when Munroe speaks, you had better listen.

Tahrenk nods. "This is more than just a simple shakedown run."

Charles shrugs. "I figured as much." Tahrenk lets out a quiet "hm" of approval.

"We're making a covert pickup on Eden Prime," Munroe explains. "That's why we're taking the _Westchester_. We need the stealth systems for this operation."

"What's on Eden Prime?"

"An archeological dig team was exploring some ruins when they unearthed a working artifact - a beacon of some kind." Munroe's voice grows serious. "We think it's Genoshan."

Charles freezes, eyes widening.

"Intact Genoshan technology?" he asks. Even Tahrenk seems struck by the thought. The Genoshans were thought to be that common ancestor - the seed from which all life in the galaxy spread - after all. The idea of examining something they left behind, of having the opportunity to study it, well...

The implications are endless.

"Thousands of years old, yes, but in good working order," Munroe says. "This is _big,_ Xavier. Usually we find simple tech - mechanical equipment, low-grade generators and the like - but finding a piece of actual, _working_ Genoshan technology..." She pauses, shaking her head. "Those Genoshan ruins we found on Mars jumped our technology forward almost two hundred years, and that was just an observational outpost. Who knows what kind of information this beacon might have? It could contain data on new technologies, mass relay research, weapons archives..."

"Obviously," Tahrenk adds, "This goes beyond just human interests."

So _that_ 's what the Spectre is here for.

"Why is the Council getting involved?," Charles asks, eyeing Tahrenk with open suspicion. "This is a human colony. In Alliance territory."

"We're part of the Citadel now, Xavier," Munroe reminds him. "We have been, ever since the First Contact War. The Council wants that beacon for the benefit of all its member species, not just humans."

"That Genoshan beacon is critical, Xavier," Tahrenk adds. "Whatever it contains is of galactic importance."

Munroe nods. "This is bigger than us. And...this operation isn't just about the beacon."

"What do you mean," Charles asks, confused.

"I'm not here to only observe the beacon," Tahrenk says. "But you as well, Commander."

"Me?" Charles frowns. "Why?"

"You're being considered as a candidate to join the Spectres," Munroe says, and Charles can't keep his face from scrunching up. The Spectres are all from the Council's other races - metallokinetics, shape-shifters, even a cyborg and colossus or two. It's a matter of fact: there simply are no human Spectres.

So he asks again. "Why me?" Humanity had been trying to get one of their own into the Spectres for years, since practically the day they joined the Citadel.

"I put your name forward for consideration," Tahrenk explains.

Charles raises an incredulous eyebrow. The Brotherhood and humanity aren't exactly great friends.

"Not all metallokinetics hate humans, you know. You must know that, like all species, the more vocal elements are not the majority. Our species may not be on the best of terms after the War, but I don't let that cloud my judgment.

"You managed to hold off an entire army at the Skyllian Blitz. At Torfan, you showed your willingness to take whatever means are necessary to complete your objective, even at the cost of your own troops' lives. The Spectres are always looking for truly exceptional individuals. I don't care what species you are, Xavier. I care that you can get the job done."

Charles frowns, but concedes Tahrenk's logic. Pragmatism is a trait that Charles has in common with the highly-militarized metallokinetic species.

"And I assume this is good for the Alliance as well?" he asks, turning to Munroe, who nods.

"Humanity needs this. If the Council is willing to let a human into the Spectres, it will show just how far the Alliance has come."

Great. Politics and symbolism getting into bed with military affairs. If this backfires...

"Eden Prime will be the first of several missions you and I have together," Tahrenk says. "I want to see how you operate before I make my final recommendation."

"Are you expecting trouble?"

"This beacon is important. Eden Prime is secure, but the Traverse is not. There are a lot of things that can give us trouble out here; pirates, raiders, mercs. If they catch wind of what's been found, they may decide another invasion is worth the risk of attacking."

Charles considers. "Then we'd best get ready." He glances at Tahrenk. He's still unsure of where the Spectre stands, but his motives and intentions seem more clear than -

_"Captain!"_ Banshee's voice breaks over the intercom, frantic. _"I've got an incoming distress signal from Eden Prime!"_

"Patch it through!" Munroe orders, and Charles blood runs cold. Somehow he knows, even before the holographic screen flickers to show the view of Eden Prime's surface, that whatever it is isn't going to be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will seem familiar for those who've played the game. Next chapters should be longer, once we get into the meat of Part 1. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudoed/commented! I love feedback =)


	4. Those Like Us (Parts 1 and 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those concerned, see end notes for spoilers relating to the emotional trauma and "chose not to warn" tag

Those Like Us (Part One)

 

Captain Munroe was fortunate: she had the foresight to prepare the landing squad's weapons and gear before they started their approach of Eden Prime. All told, Xavier's team takes less than five minutes to get to the cargo bay, to suit up and gather their equipment.

"Oh shit," Jenkins mutters. He's standing beside Alex and Commander Xavier in the _Westchester's_ loading bay, running diagnostics on his Lancer rifle. "This is bad. This is so bad. I grew up on Eden Prime, for fuck's sake."

"Calm yourself, Jenkins," the Commander says. "Take a deep breath if you need it. We need you focused."

Alex is prepping his weapon for combat as well, loading his pistol and checking his suit's HUD. "Do we even know what we're up against, Commander?" he asks.

Xavier sighs. "No. The video is all we have."

The video in question is a forty-seconds long transmission from the helmet camera of an Alliance soldier pinned down and surrounded by an unknown enemy on the planet's surface, calling for reinforcements. The only thing they've been able to gleam from watching it is that the soldiers' squad had taken heavy losses, and that they were engaging an enemy in possession of a weapon that nobody has ever seen before. It was electric. And loud.

But Alex thought the end of the video was the worst part: when the soldier wearing the camera had been shot and the camera fell, panning upwards towards the sky. Amid all the static and chaos, it showed something that looked like it was right out of a nightmare; like a giant black ghost reaching down towards the planet's surface, wreathed in red lightning.

Alex had never seen anything like it. Neither had Commander Xavier.

And from the way the Commander described it, the reactions from Captain Munroe and Tahrenk indicated they hadn't either.

"So, we're fighting an unknown enemy that has so far managed to take out a Marine unit and has a giant metallic hand that shoots red lightning," Alex sums up, nodding. "Okay."

"Whatever it is, we'll kill it, right?" Jenkins says. He looks to Commander Xavier, and Alex knows what he's hoping to find. They all know about the Commander's past. The Blitz. Torfan. If Xavier says this will be okay, there's a damn good chance that it will be.

But the Commander just looks at Jenkins, his eyes going all far away for a second, before he nods. "Be safe, gentlemen. Don't get yourselves killed. There aren't many like us in the galaxy, and the rest are dead."

"Yes, sir!" both soldiers chant.

_"Commander, two minutes to the drop zone,”_ Banshee's voice cuts in over the intercom.

"Copy, Cassidy. Drop the ramp when we're on approach."

_"You got it, Commander."_

As the channel cuts, the elevator to the upper decks slides open, and Captain Munroe steps out. She's followed by Tahrenk, still wearing his red and black armor from when he was dogging the Commander on the bridge earlier, though this time he has about a half-dozen weapons attached to his waist and back.

"What's the situation, Captain?" Xavier asks when they approach.

"Still shit, Xavier. We haven't got a message back from Alliance HQ yet, so we're going to have to move in on our own. No contact with any enemy ships in orbit, which means whatever brought them here is on the ground now."

Tahrenk nods, holding his hands out like he's balancing himself and closing his eyes. "I can feel metal moving down below, standard artillery, and armor, but..." His eyebrows screw up. "There's something big down there too. It's definitely metal, but it feels...strange."

"Damn," Alex whispers.

"What about you, Commander? Do you feel anything?" Munroe gestures at Xavier's head, presumably referring to his psyionic amp.

But the Commander just shakes his head. "No. I maintain my psionic block at all times unless required for combat situations. But, I agree with Tahrenk. Whatever is down there is strong. And there's a feeling of..." he frowns, "Wrongness, about it."

Munroe sighs. "Alright. Here's the plan: Xavier, your team is the muscle of this operation. Move in at the drop zone and head straight for the dig site. Our best LZ puts you at two kilometers out. Coordinates are already uploaded."

_"One minute from the drop zone,"_ Banshee announces. _"Deploying ramp."_

The forward entrance to the loading bay shudders open, and immediately the four of them are buffeted with gusts of wind that almost knock them off their feet. Alex is practiced at landings by now though, so it's second nature for him to reach back and grab one of the rope-holds affixed to the wall as support. Sunlight filters in, followed by the telltale smells of smoke and violence.

Tahrenk runs towards the doors before they even finish opening.

"Aren't you coming with us?" Alex asks him.

"I move faster on my own," the alien replies. The incoming wave of air slows, and outside they can see the ground rising up to meet them. Banshee maneuvers the _Westchester_ to hover over a nondescript patch of grass, a sea of cliffs and white water-towers visible in the distance. Without a word, Tahrenk dashes out the door and moves off into the smoke. Alex resists the urge to roll his eyes, because a stubborn metallokinetic is almost too cliché to be funny.

"The beacon is your primary objective," Munroe says. "We don't have enough manpower to secure the entire colony, so focus your energy on the dig site. Tahrenk will scout ahead and provide recon to you over the mission channel. Otherwise, maintain radio silence. The _Westchester_ will stay nearby to provide air support for the Marines still here and to pick you up once you've located the beacon."

"What about survivors?" Jenkins asks.

The question makes everyone pause, and Alex feels like a total dick for not realizing it sooner. Jenkins is from here. No doubt he's thinking of his family, while the rest of them talk about efficiency and objectives.

Munroe is the one who gets to answer him. "Helping survivors is a secondary objective. Your top priority is that beacon. Get in and recover it before the enemy does."

It's very quiet in the loading bay. Even the ship seems to take a break from humming as they stand there.

Finally, Commander Xavier nods. "We'll take care of it, Captain."

"I know you will, Commander," she says. "The mission is yours now, Xavier. Good luck."

 

~*~

 

Corporal Richard L. Jenkins follows to the rear and left of Commander Xavier, covering his flank as they advance through the field.

He is not having a good time.

His hands are trembling. There's sweat making its way down the back of his neck, settling itself uncomfortably between his shoulder blades under his armor. He feels like he wants to do too many things at once: he wants to run; he wants to cry.

He wants to scream.

This is his home. That particular stretch of grass right there...he used to play here as a kid. Stupid old-Earth games his parents taught him, like tag and red rover.

He licks his lips; does his best to calm his breathing as they crest another hill, out of the field and into the trees of a forest, and he's at least relieved that he knows exactly where they are.

They push through, and eventually Jenkins takes the lead. He struggles to keep his weapon from shaking as they move along the edge of the next ridge.

 

~*~

 

Charles is having a hard time reconciling the view before him with what he remembers of Elysium. That too, was a colony famed for its 'paradise idyllic'. It was why he chose to go there on shore leave; to experience the sun and quiet that can only come from miles and miles of farmland. It reminded him of Earth. It reminded him of England, before the War.

Eden Prime doesn't look like an alien planet. Looking at its blue sky, it's hard to believe that the planet is terraformed: that since humanity first settled here the atmosphere has been quietly adjusted to suit human biology more comfortably, the ground tilled and shaped to support just over two million lives. Even harder to believe that this scene of tranquility has all gone to hell over the past twenty minutes.

They pause at a small brook inside a small forest, and Charles startles when something drifts out from between the trees. 

"Jenkins," he whispers, "What is that?"

"Just a gasbag," Jenkins replies. "They're harmless." He illustrates his point by poking at the floating bubble-like animal with the point of his rifle. It bounces away like a balloon, showing no signs of disturbance.

"Fucking weird," Alex whispers.

The three soldiers maneuver around the native wildlife, stepping down into the stream. Water splashes their armor just dark enough so that they look like ghosts; just shadows rising from the fog.

_It's too quiet_ , Charles thinks. _Like something from a fairy tale._

He never had a childhood, per se, but he did hear stories: of haunted forests full of hidden monsters that hunted the lost and wayward souls who wandered by. In the dark here, it's almost tempting to believe the monster they're hunting is simply some wolf instead of the giant mystery that's wrought so much destruction in such a short time.

They clear the forest and see the sun again. And this time the peaceful scene brings something else:

Through his helmet, Charles smells a familiar stench: the aroma of woods and grass and life, mixed with the acrid taste of smoke and the searing stink of burning flesh.

These are the smells of war.

Charles is dimly surprised to realize how familiar they are.

 

~*~

 

The ground team was chosen for maximum tactical effectiveness. Jenkins is green - right out of the academy - but he's a native to the colony, making him a perfect scout. Lieutenant Summers is essential support, being a tactical expert and trained in electronic warfare. And Charles is team leader; a skilled tactician and psyionic. In theory, they make a great team.

But sometimes, what makes sense on paper doesn't make sense in real life.

An approach route to the dig site pops up on their HUDs, tracing a path along the ridge to the southwest.

"This is the quickest route," Jenkins says.

"I don't like that ridgeline," Alex mutters. "Not much good cover."

"Agreed," Charles says. "There look to be some boulders along the edge, from a rockslide perhaps. If we hop cover between them, we should get through quickly enough."

The two other soldiers nod.

"Good. I'm on point. Let's move."

Charles stars the procession filing through the trees and out into the open, taking cover behind the first boulder. In the distance, there are the telltale flashes of light and the sounds of heavy gunfire. There's a battle brewing, and it's getting intense.

"Combat nearby," Alex confirms.

Charles nods. He shifts his feet where he's crouched, gritting his teeth against the sudden rush of feeling that claws its way down his back. Like hot and cold water being poured on at the same time. There's a ringing in his ears. He'd once heard another psyionic describe it as being on the wrong end of a sonic blast, where the cone starts from the other side and ends up between your ears. All he knows it that it itches. He rubs the back of his neck, fingers slipping across the node at the base of his skull.

There 's a terrible sense of dread.

Charles pushes it down. "Jenkins," he whispers. "How far out is that combat, do you think?"

The Corporal frowns and checks his HUD. The yellow glow highlights his face in stark shadows. Charles blinks back the swimming vision that paints it like a skull.  

"Uh," Jenkins whispers, "I'd put it about half a click in this direction." He points along their current heading.

"Sounds right," Charles says. "Alright. Gentlemen, move slow and watch your fire. There may be friendlies. Jenkins, take point."

Jenkins acknowledges the order and slips through the boulders, edging out into the open. He moves up to cover behind the next rock and waves over his shoulder to signal them over. This is standard fire maneuver into hostile territory; advance, scan and cover, advance, scan and cover. Charles follows Jenkins, followed by Summers. At Charles wave, Jenkins starts forward again, darting out -

And then -

There's a flicker of movement, smooth and fast, from the edge of the ridge, and suddenly their HUDs are full of active red dots coming right for them. Half a dozen airborne shapes fly through the trees and boulders, opening fire and shooting pulses of white-hot blasts that tear right through Corporal Jenkins where he stands.

Charles starts firing before he can even think.

 

~*~

~*~

 

Those Like Us (Part Two)

 

Charles' weapon isn't the Diamond rifle he had at Elysium. Nor is it the Elkoss-Magnate with which he'd won that particular fight. Instead he has the Lancer rifle, a standard-issue Alliance military assault weapon. Good for quick bursts of fire; small bullets with medium velocity. Fairly accurate, and doesn't overheat easily.

Corporal Jenkins' body hasn't even touched the ground before Charles and Lieutenant Summers have their fingers glued to their Lancer triggers, putting dozens of sand-sized slugs of armor-piercing rounds into the attacking drones.

The recoil-absorbing shock hits Charles shoulder hard with each burst. His shots ring true: punching through the blue shell of the drone's barriers. It spins around, sparking wildly, before falling to the ground and exploding.

Summers lets out two quick shots from his pistol and drops back behind cover. Another drone pivots to fire on him, zooming up over the boulder. Summers zooms in with his pistol's limited scope, and squeezes, hitting it with two more shots. The machine topples end over end, crashing into a tree trunk.

Charles dives behind cover a second later, joining Summers, and preparing to let another barrage of fire loose should the drones begin another advance.

But the drones don't follow. Instead they appear to be retreating, their red-dotted figures zooming out of Charles' HUD just as fast as they appeared.

Within seconds, Summers vaults himself over the boulder and towards Jenkins. Charles follows, but at a much slower pace. The Lieutenant would realize just as quickly as Charles had that the issue was academic. Jenkins wasn't going to be revived. His armor was covered in a mess of small holes, still smoking with the cauterized remains of drone fire. His suit's shields probably stopped the first few beams that hit him, and then his armor had probably withstood a fair few more, but the sheer rate of fire had sliced through his body not long after.

"Shit," Summers breathes. "He's gone." The Lieutenant reaches down into Jenkins' helmet and pushes back his visor, pressing his fingers over the Corporal's eyes to slide them gently closed. "Ripped right through his shields. He never had a chance."

Charles takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. His psyonic amp feels like its burning through his skin. If he isn't careful, it's going to get overwhelming soon and he'll have no choice but to lash out. There are just too many emotions at this place; too much fear and sadness...

He shakes his head.

"Understood," he says, unsurprised to find his voice is hoarse. "Secure his gear, Lieutenant."

Summers complies, but the sluggish way he moves his hands as he removes Jenkins' weapons and medigel packs speaks to how wrong he feels doing it. When he's finished, he shoots Charles a look like _he's_ the monster, eyes running over Charles' face like he's searching for something.

_That's right,_ Charles thinks. _Now you understand._

"Gear secured," Alex says stiffly.

Charles nods. "I'm on point. Let's keep moving." He waits until Summer has his rifle raised, and then moves ahead.

They keep their eyes open for any remaining drones as they cut across the ridgeline towards the woods on the far side that lead down to the dig site. Nothing comes out to threaten them, and their sensors show no signs of enemy hostiles in the immediate vicinity. If those drones are still out there, they're either very well hidden or using such minimum power as to not show up.

When they pass through the trees, a voice chirps over their radio.

_"Xavier,"_ comes Tahrenk's voice. _"I'm approaching the dig site from the north. There are hostiles everywhere."_ Charles HUD flashes with an icon, indicating Tahrenk's location.

"Copy," he replies. "We're approaching from the south. Be advised, hostile drone units have been sighted. We have a man down."

_"Acknowledged,"_ is Tahrenk's terse reply.

And then everything is silent again.

 

~*~

 

Movement comes up on his suit's display, followed by the faint sound of far-off footsteps. Tahrenk freezes where he stands, body tensing, reaching out with his power for any feeling of metal. He senses it a second later: a faint, mechanical buzz that thrums under his skin. It's coming from the far side of the complex of ruins he's working his way through. On the sensor display, he sees two active hostiles approximately sixty meters away, and the clatter of moving metallic gun-like shapes he feels matches their steady movements.

All told thus far, he's counted no fewer than six hostiles around the dig site itself. Nothing he can't handle with the patented metallokinetic strategy: prepare, evade, eliminate. This time, his mission is not about killing. It's about observing one Alliance Lieutenant Commander Charles Xavier.

Who's already lost a member of his squad.

_This enemy..._ , he thinks bitterly, _what are the odds that the entire_ Westchester _squad could deal with it, head on?_

Not very good, it would seem. As he's moved across the ruins of this planet, over the hills and through the woods, his observation of the opponent has rapidly led him to one very troublesome conclusion: they are synthetics of some kind. Something about their design reminds him of humans...

Cyborgs?

"Damn," Tahrenk says, checking the recordings he'd taken of the first few he'd seen. Emerging from cover, he moves west, up towards the last pair he saw not ten minutes ago. He finds them about a dozen meters off.

They appear to be humanoid; lithe and slender, and built out of dark material that looks metallic but doesn't feel like it to his power. Their backs are exposed, showing fine, intricate patterns of cabling running down their bodies in an almost serpentine fashion, ending at points tipped with gleaming lights. No doubt those are their sensor systems. Everything about their design is smooth and curved.

And they are intelligent - not simple combat drones or machines. They move and operate like living, thinking entities, and the far-off buzzing sounds they make are obviously some form of communication.

One of them bends down to pick up a discarded pack of medigel from a fallen Alliance marine. _That's odd_ , Tahrenk thinks. _Medigel only works on organics. Why would a cyborg care about medigel?_

As he watches, it opens the pack and slaps the medicine over a wound on its arm, which begins...to heal itself.

_Shit_.

There's no doubt, now. Tahrenk breaks his cover and retreats back to circle the other side of the ruins.

These aren't cyborgs. They're _bio_ borgs.

Bioborgs have emerged from beyond the Perseus Veil. This is bad. This is very, very bad.

The bioborgs are moving away from the ruins. Tahrenk double-checks the topography maps. He grits his teeth, feels the thrum of his power underneath his skin, like the vibrations before an engine fires. There's what looks to be a small human settlement near the dig site - a series of trailers for the archeologists' perhaps - and a railway for the construction teams. That was how the humans had reached the ruins in the first place. Their civilian housing is just beyond that.

And the bioborgs are headed that way.

"Xavier," he hisses over the radio. "I've spotted enemy activity the rail yard. I'm going to check it out."

_"Copy,"_ the human replies. Everything falls silent, and Tahrenk hesitates.

"Be advised..." he says eventually. "There is a hostile force at the dig site. The enemy appears to be synthetics with organic modifications, resistant to most engineer and fire squad attack. Possibly bioborg, but I'll need a body to confirm."

A few seconds later,

_"Copy,"_ Xavier acknowledges. No questions, no concerns. Nothing.

Tahrenk considers this Commander Xavier. Hero of Elysium. Butcher of Torfan. Survivor of London.

He has no idea what's going on in Xavier's mind right now, but whatever it is, he does know that the bioborgs are going to regret it.   

 

~*~

 

The drones didn't retreat. They set an ambush.

Perhaps two hundred meters from the dig site they reappear, flaring up on Charles' HUD less than three seconds before they strike. Charles and Alex are primed for another attack, and they dive for cover just in time.

It happens before he even has time to think: there's a shot of electricity down his nerves, the node on the back of his neck flares up so hot it feels like it's burning. Reality shifts, gravity and mass becoming subjective as Charles sends his thoughts _out,_ straight for the drones.

One is blasted backwards into a tree, shattering the wood. The second one takes the blow right to the center, crumpling inward and smashing to the ground.

They wait, but the drones remain still.

"All clear," Alex whispers. Charles nods. He hadn't meant for that to happen. His head feels fuzzy, and he blinks to try and rid himself of the sound of being underwater. Psyonic's aren't supposed to use their implants unless absolutely necessary because it drains too much energy; leaving them vulnerable and open to attack until they can get it charged up again. The last time he'd lost control of it had been at Elysium.

"I hear more gunfire," Alex adds a few minutes later as they continue forward towards the dig site. "Right up ahead."

"That's not Tahrenk," Charles says. His sensors pick up a whole lot of red dots, very quickly, and very close. He shakes his head, and they're still there - the dots and the sounds of gunfire, growing closer.

"I've got friendlies ID'd here," Alex says, fingers flying over his HUD. He taps it once and the screen flickers, but sure enough, there's a green dot in the middle of all those reds, just up ahead.

When he listens, Charles can pick out a steady stream of individual bursts in the midst of the gunfire.

"That's a Lancer rifle," he says. "One of the Alliance marines must have made it out."

"Or it's a civilian who stole their gun and is using it to try and hold them off."

They rush through the trees and come out the other side to the view of the dig site, finally; surrounded by ruins and a stone-like stadium. In the center, a human marine in white armor is pit against several dark grey opponents. From where Charles stands, they look like humans with gunmetal skin; not as large as a colossus, and the plating isn't nearly as shiny silver. And their movements are much more fluid. The way they twist and writhe out of the path of the marine's bullets is like watching water slide down a window pane.

And behind this strange enemy are dozens of tall, narrow spikes. Impaled on each one is a human body.

_"Fuck!"_ Alex says. Charles grinds to a halt, his vision blurring, and his mind jumping -

_Enemy guns flaming, shots fired so close to his head that his ears aren't even working anymore. The traps are set, just have to make it behind one more car, behind one more building. Wait it out and they'll come get you. They will come get you. Just wait it out. Wait it out._

Charles is firing his rifle with his right hand and lifting his left up high. Everything gets dark. Everything gets like liquid fire running down his back.

Distantly, he can hear his brain screaming at him that this is too much. Too much too soon. You're going to burn out. You're going to get hurt and there won't be any coming back. Be calm, take a deep breath. Calm your mind, Charles. Damn it Charles, _calm your mind!_

 

~*~

~*~

 

Alliance Gunnery Chief Armando "Darwin" Muñoz  fires off another shot with his rifle. It hits the...the... _thing_ advancing on him right in the head. But instead of blowing a hole through its skull - the way a shot like that would take out anything - it's absorbed and spit back out again.

"Shit," he curses, reloading and taking aim again. Predictably, it bounces off.

_These things are unkillable,_ he thinks despondently. _I'm gonna fucking die here. On a_ farming _colony._

And then, out of the blue, there's a sound like when a rocket is getting ready to take off. Like all when the air is sucked out of a vacuum, and when it blows, there's a bright flash of light and a burst of electricity so strong it fries his shields. His HUD starts beeping in a panic.

"Yeah, yeah, I know! What the hell am I supposed to do about it now?"

He hears the pulse of a few more gunshots. Breaking his cover for a quick second, he sees two figures rising out of the smoke, their HUD's flashing red on their armbands. The electric shock, or whatever that was, seems to have fried their shields as well.

The first one through the haze - blue and gold armor - fires his rifle into the head of one of the _things_ as it turns on him. But this time, instead of bouncing harmlessly away, the bullet strikes true. The _thing_ falls to the ground, a gaping hole right between its eyes.

"That's great, Commander! Psionic blasts must fuck with their barriers!" comes a voice from behind the blue and gold figure, another marine emerging, this one armored in light grey.

The remaining _things_ turn to see their fallen comrade. They stare at its body for a moment, then up at the newly arrived soldiers, before seeming to come to some unspoken conclusion: disengage. They retreat, and with creepily-perfect synchronization, withdraw behind the safety of the stone ruins.

Darwin stays crouched behind his cover, his rifle held up to his shoulder. The only sounds he can hear now are the crunching of armored boots on the sandy ground, the harsh inhales and exhales of labored breathing, and -

"Hello?"

This voice isn't the same as the one before. It's lighter, and British. Darwin hasn't heard a British accent in a long time, not since he left the Academy, not since...

"You're from Earth?" He doesn't quite mean to ask it out loud, but it's too late. It's out there, ringing louder than he'd anticipated as his voice bounces off the rocks and stones.

There's no answer for a long time. Darwin starts to think it might be too long, and he looks for a way to retreat back to the forest. His cover doesn't extend very far, trapped as he is with a wall behind him and nothing but open space between him and the forest in front.It would seem that he's effectively backed himself into a corner.

Then,

"Yes," the British voice says. "I'm from Earth."

"We're Alliance," says the first voice. "We're here to help."

Darwin checks his HUD. His shields are still recharging, but it's not showing any hostiles in the immediate area. He waits a few seconds for the static to clear. Sure enough, he sees a bright blue dot - himself - and two green dots. Friendlies.

Okay, then.

Darwin slowly extricates himself from behind the stone block he's used as cover.

"Thanks for the help," he says. He holsters his rifle and extends his hand out to the blue and gold soldier.

"Armando Muñoz, Gunnery Chief. Second Frontier Division, 112 Brigade, 4th Battallion, Company A."

"Lieutenant Commander Charles Xaver," says the Brit. Up close, he's shorter than Darwin expected. And he looks like shit. His lips and face are pale and bloodless, and his blue eyes look like they're so bloodshot they might burst at any moment. And that scar on his face isn't a fresh one, which means this guy's done some time. For him to be so worn down...how he's still standing...what they've been through...Darwin has no idea.

But the man's handshake is all power.

"This is Lieutenant Summers."

The blonde man in the grey armor shakes his hand and gives him a nod, which Darwin returns.

"I'm lucky you got here when you did," he says.

"Us too, man," Summers says. He sounds as exhausted as Darwin feels.

Xavier is all business, "Report, Chief."

Darwin finds himself slipping into attention on instinct, clasping his hands behind his back even as his muscles protest.

"Sir...uh," Darwin begins. He's a bit uncertain of how to explain exactly what happened. Now that the adrenaline from combat is wearing off, his mind feels like it's slipping. He can't catch a thought and hold on to it. "My unit was patrolling the perimeter around the dig site when the attack came. We tried to double back to the site to protect the scientists when they hit us out of nowhere. It was an ambush, sir. A coordinated attack. They knew exactly where the dig site was and how we'd respond."

"Is there anyone left from your squad?" Xavier asks.

Darwin blinks. He clenches his jaw, but makes sure his tone is even when he answers. "No. I think that's them over there." He points to the human bodies impaled on the spikes along the edges of the dig sites. "That one at the front, with the red armor...that's our Lieutenant. Sanders."

Summers makes a noise that could be disgust or disbelief - maybe both - and shakes his head.

Xavier takes a deep breath. "Do you know what happened to the beacon?"

_That fucking beacon_. Darwin knew there was something messed up about that thing. No way does the Alliance spare an entire unit, an entire _batallion,_ for a research site's security. And now his squad is dead, attacked by those things.

"No, sir," he says. "It was there earlier today when we were heading out on patrol. Might still be there."

"Okay," Xavier nods, after a moment. He looks Darwin right in the eyes, his expression intense. "You're with us now. We're here to recover the beacon, at any cost. Understood?"

Yep, they're after that beacon, all right. And if the Alliance sent in commandos like these to get to it, must be pretty damn important. It better be. To get there, they're going to have to go through more of those things.

Darwin's voice is steel when he answers.

"Yes, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for minor/OC character death and for a character dealing with emotional trauma/flashbacks. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read/commented/kudoed this fic so far! Feedback helps the bunnies =)


	5. FUBAR (Parts 1 and 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for spoilers pertaining to the "chose not to warn" tag. 
> 
> And we meet some familiar faces...

FUBAR (Part One)

 

**The Citadel Prisidium. Citadel Security Headquarters.**

Normally, the Prisidium is a quiet place. Relatively calm, with its landscape of gentle rivers and artificial breezes; the low murmur of voices mixed with the hum of overhead transport craft; the call of birds and other tree-dwelling animals like living decorations. The only loud noises you're likely to find here are the splashing of fish and the occasional distant car horn.

This is why the sounds of an argument are being paid so much attention, as the figures of two metallokinetics walking along one of the streams disturb the serenity.

"This is insane!" snarls the first metallokinetic, slightly taller and slimmer than his companion. He wears a lightweight blue and white armor, the standard working uniform for any Citadel Security officer. His face is relatively pale and unpainted, save for the few slashes of black ink across his nose and up his cheeks, drawing attention to the already severe cut of his features. "I've only been on this investigation for a week, and now you're pulling me off?"

"Council orders, Erik," replies the second metallokinetic. Unlike Erik, he is wearing the gauche toga-like metallokinetic equivalent of a civilian suit, and, unlike Erik, his face sports an extensive pattern of dark reds and browns mixed with whites that cover almost everything but his eyes.

"They've told me to put an end to it," Executor Victin continues, his voice low. As the head of Citadel Security, he doesn't want to draw any more attention to their heated conversation than Erik already has. "They're decision has been reached. There's nothing we can do."

"This isn't an investigation, it's a farce!" Erik replies. "I need more time!"

"Erik," Victin growls, stopping to glare at his detective, "This is an investigation of a Council Spectre. Do you..." His tone softens. "Did you really think _any_ investigation of a Spectre would be anything but a token gesture?"

"Victin," Erik says, "You of all people should be jumping at the chance to take down a Spectre."

"If I thought there was any chance of reversing the Council's decision, I would." Victin's tense posture shows that Erik has struck a nerve. "But you and I have both reviewed the evidence, and I'm sorry to say it's shoddy at best."

"Give me more time and I can get solid proof. Something more substantial than a scratchy recording. You _know_ I can, or you wouldn't have given me the case."

"Erik -"

"We haven't even followed all the leads yet! I have contacts, people who can get some real dirt on -"

"Erik -"

"There has to be more evidence that we're just not seeing. I _need_ more time -"

" _Lehnsherr,_ " Victin says. "That's enough."

Erik falls silent, but the look in his eyes is anything but.

"Erik, you're willingness to bend protocol has been an asset before. But this time you're asking too much. The investigation is over, and if you keep pushing the issue I may be forced to suspend you. Is that understood?"

Erik stares at his boss for a few moments, before turning sharply and walking away.

"Understood. Sir," he growls, almost inaudible.

 

~*~

**The Citadel, Medical Ward**

Unit M01R-A, or "Moira", as her organic infiltration protocol dictates she introduce herself, jerks her head up at the sound of voices in the waiting room. It's been two hours since she stumbled into the clinic, and she's spent most of them checking her circuitry status. It's either that, or review the data she picked up. Or double-check her weapons one more time. It's disappointing, really, as she only has a pistol with armor-piercing mods and a couple of stun grenades. She's rigged her shields with a half-dozen ECM blasts just in case she's in another gunfight, but they're so fried it might end up just blowing _her_ up instead.

Not exactly where she imagined herself being when she left the cyborg Fleet for her maturity Pilgrimage.

"Next time you call Citadel Security, don't tell them about the super secret information you accidentally uncovered," she mutters to herself.

After she relayed her information, she'd been given a place and time and told to meet with an Officer Lehnsherr. Only when she'd showed up she was met by several men in C-Sec uniforms. Without radios. And without badges.

M01R-A may be a cyborg, and she may be on her Pilgrimage. But that doesn't mean she's stupid. A couple of key questions was all it took for her to realize it was an ambush, and a nasty gunfight had erupted through the alleys of the Wards before she'd fled to the clinic and ended up in Doctor Michel's waiting room.

So here she sits, pistol in hand, watching as two men in nondescript outfits talk to the Doctor only ten feet away. M01R-A stands up and they turn towards her, hands flying automatically to their holsters. M01R-A already has her gun leveled on them, her optic display running diagnostics faster than any conventional organic HUD-interface could hope to replicate, and in the blink of an eye it shows her that these men - two humans - are carrying low-level shield barriers under their clothes.

"Please, no!" Doctor Michel insists, coming around her desk to step between the brewing fight. "Moira, these are the men my contact has sent to help you."

Contrary to conventional opinion (read: _organic_ opinion), cyborgs can feel relief.

M01R-A lowers her pistol.

"Thank you, Doctor," she says. "I'm sorry. I just...can't be too careful."

"Understandable," one of the humans says. "We're here to bring you to Omega Red. If you'll come with us...

"Do you trust them, Doctor Michel?" M01R-A asks as she walks around the counter. The doctor nods, but there's something off about her features. M01R-A's facial recognition software isn't as advanced as some other cyborgs' in the Fleet (that's why she's on Pilgrimage after all, to build up her internal experience codex) but even she can see the look of warning.

"Omega Red is reliable," the Doctor says carefully. "Especially when there's money involved."

In organic-speak, that means: if he's being paid more than what you offer him is worth, he'll deactivate you in a heartbeat and strip you for spare parts to sell on the black market.

M01R-A considers. She never thought this was going to be easy. But if what she found is true, then someone _has_ to know. Nobody knows the destruction the bioborgs can bring better than the cyborgs. And if there really is a Spectre involved...

"Alright." M01R-A says, turning to the humans. "Let's go."

 

~*~

**Citadel docking bay**

Citadel Security keeps a close eye on all incoming traffic. Different kinds of immigrants and different kinds of cargo raise certain flags, and whether those bureaucrats up on the Prisidium will admit to it or not there's a certain threshold that all arrivals have to meet before they're granted access to the "jewel of the galaxy". Supposedly the Citadel belongs to every species. Everyone is welcome. The lost can find a home here.

Blah blah blah.

Logan snorts. They preach equality and acceptance for all comers, but the fact is that most new arrivals will only spend ten minutes tops at the customs desk. A few simple questions, a stamp on your passport, and _voila_ , in you go. Nice to see you, enjoy your stay. Unless, of course you're one of the rarer species. The kind that everyone has conveniently forgotten about fifty to a hundred years after their planet's been wiped out. Those inconvenient casualties of galactic war or genocide that most kids don't know about unless they have to study it for a history test.

So, it doesn't exactly surprise Jimmy Logan "Wolverine" Howlett that he is subject to two hours in a customs booth getting a "friendly talk about weapons regulations" and a we've-got-our-eye-on-you sort of welcome. Or that the call he'd been expecting from his not-so-legal employer chooses that exact moment to come through.

He didn't even ask how they knew he was in the damn security booth, but he did figure that - since they knew where he was - they also knew he'd have to wait before he was somewhere private before he could talk business.

As soon as the C-Sec pricks let him out he finds himself a quiet corner down an alley in the Wards. Sure, even here in hippy-dippy land there are alleys any normal person won't walk down no matter what, but those rules don't generally apply to guys like Logan. Go figure.

He stops in one corridor that's ominously dark in the middle of the day-cycle, purple and blue neon lights tinting his silhouette like a big devil against the wall. There's a man crouched on the floor when he gets there, doing Logan doesn't want to know what, but he scurries away at Logan's approach. Logan raises an eyebrow at the man's retreating back, pulls a cigar out of his pocket, lights it up, and presses the re-dial on his comm unit.

"It's me," he grunts around a mouthful of smoke. "What d'you want?"

_"A situation has come up in the last hour,"_ the voice on the other end replies. No use trying to tell what species they are, male or female. Too much electronic masking. _"A person under our employ has made a grave mistake."_

"Someone betrayed the Shadow Broker?" Logan muses. "Who is it? They sound stupid."

_"Forwarding the information now."_

"Got it. Hmm, interesting. You wan' em dead or educated?"

_"Educated, then dead. Preferably."_

"Do I get any liberties on this job or do I gotta keep it clean?"

_"Collateral is preferred to be limited."_

Logan grunts. "That'll cost you more."

_"Which is why your payment is higher than usual."_

"Noticed that, did ya."

_"You have forty-eight hours to complete the job, otherwise we put it on the market for open bidding and going forward your priority rank for future missions will be adjusted accordingly. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that the room for mistakes is severely limited. The Shadow Broker doesn't like to be made a fool of twice."_

Logan rolls his eyes. Why is it that every time he gets called about a job the guy on the other end always acts like it's a bigger deal than it really is? Killin is killin. Ain't no need to dress it up in pretty wrapping paper.

_"Will you take the job?"_

He grunts. "Obviously. I'll get it done."

_"Thank you, Battlemaster Wolverine."_

"Whatever."

He closes the comm link, turning his head and craning his neck. It fills the alley with a satisfying _crack._

"This should be fun," Logan says to himself as he starts out of the alley. He hasn't killed anyone on the Citadel in _ages._

 

~*~

~*~

 

FUBAR (Part Two)

 

**_Meanwhile, back on Eden Prime..._ **

The rail station is empty except for a few of those strange spikes the bioborgs set up, each with an emaciated human corpse stuck on it. As he moves cautiously past these devices, Tahrenk notices that they appear to be free-standing machines with collapsible mechanical bases, indicating that they are engineered with portability in mind.

He swallows roughly. The bioborgs haven't been seen in hundreds of years. And now they show back up in the Traverse, with - he hates to admit - _superior_ technology, attacking a human colony and nailing their soldiers to spikes...

Tahrenk has seen a lot of things in his time with the Brotherhood military, and even more during his time as a Spectre. People are capable of sadistic and vicious things, and he's never had a problem killing monsters. It's his job, after all.

Well...mostly.

And that brings up another issue.

_What's the Council going to think of all this?_

Most likely, they'll shit bricks. Especially with the humans pushing so hard for a seat. An open attack against any member species of the Citadel is usually considered an act of galactic war. If the Council doesn't agree to assist the humans in seeking vengeance - which they will want to do, Tahrenk has no doubt - it could set back Council-human relations by decades. And that's not even considering what this revelation will do to the synthetic rights movement, now that the bioborgs have seemingly reemerged from beyond the Veil. The cyborgs are going to want answers, seeing as they're the ones who created the bioborgs in the first place, then drove them out of the known galaxy when they rebelled.

There's going to be a lot of head-hunting in the future, that's for sure.

Tahrenk emerges on the other side of the rail station and finds it piled high with crates and boxes left by the scientists studying the dig site. The spaceport itself sits at the bottom of a small hill, with a small platform overlooking the train itself. He makes his way to the display area, watching for any movement.

His HUD blinks in warning as he approaches the platform. He raises his rifle, sliding across the ground on silent feet, and reaches a group of boxes good for cover. There's a movement just beyond, rounding the corner on the other side of a raised dais, and then -

"Juggernaut?" he asks, surprised.

 

~*~

 

It's a classic controlled retreat as Commander Xavier leads his team to fall backwards, covering one another in standard coordinated fashion. It's not clear whether the enemy they're fighting ( _and holy shit,_ Alex thinks, _fucking_ bioborgs? _Really?_ ) feel emotions, but it's quickly becoming apparent that they have some sort of network intelligence, even if it is fading under overwhelming fire.

Whatever kind of mind-meld the bioborgs have going on does little to slow the onslaught that is crashing into them as the Alliance marines advance through the Genoshan ruins. Alex takes the left side of the three-point assault, shooting off quick bursts with his backup pistol. The rounds it fires are about twice the size of those fired by his assault rifle, and they hit their targets with a satisfying ripping sound.

On the right side is newly-acquired Gunnery Chief Armando ("just call me Darwin, man") Muñoz. He doesn't have the superior tech skill that Alex has, nor the ability for psyionic blasts that the Commander does, but he does have one hell of a survival ability. He drills through bioborg shields, round after round, keeping up a steady hail of shots that strike right in the head more often than not. After every coordinated burst the marines fire off, the bioborgs fall back, their numbers dwindling slowly - so slowly - but surely.

And in the middle there's Xavier, leading the assault. Alex has only known the Commander for about two days now, but even he can tell that this fight their in is a bad one; bad enough perhaps to even rival Xavier's history at Elysium and Torfan. He doesn't remember much from his psyionic-101 classes at the Academy, but he's pretty sure that they aren't supposed to exert their amps this much, nor are they supposed to look like they're about two seconds from collapsing into a heap on the planet's surface.

"Muñoz," Xavier's voice barely carries over the sounds of heavy gunfire. "How far are we from the beacon?"

"Almost there!"

Alex has never been in this kind of combat situation before. Sure he did all the drills and exercises they put you through at the Academy, and those were terrifying as shit at the time, but he can't say that he's ever had something happen to him that was this bad. Not like a pirate attack while on shore leave, or watching your entire squad get strung up on crazy mechanical crucifixes. He's always kind of thought that his personal history is a not so good one. Now he's thinking maybe it is pretty good, all things considered.

They're so close to the end of this thing, though. And knowing that makes Alex want to fight hard; to push more fiercely than he ever has before.

So while he may not have the death of a dozen Alliance soldiers resting on his shoulders, he does have something else: a hovercraft accident, a colony orphanage, and a young boy with floppy brown hair. A special brand of motivation; the kind that he doesn't like to bring up because it feels like it could easily make him a different person. It's like lighting a fire in his chest, filling him up with so much rage that he thinks he can't stand it. Which is why he doesn't do it that often, unless the circumstances require. Like they do now.

_Scotty..._ he thinks. _I'm sorry little brother. I know I told you I wouldn't let myself get like this. I know how much it scared you to see your big bro lose control. But this time I have to. I've got to stay alive long enough to find you..._

Alex is not a psyonic, though he's always suspected that he got a little bit of extra in him too from somewhere down the family tree. It's not as pretty as a shapeshifter or as dangerous as a metallokinetic, but it lets him hone his skills into something that resembles a killing machine.

And it's not something he's proud of.

With a renewed cry of fury, Alex charges forward on his flank, hammering those bioborgs unfortunate enough to wander into his path. He's never seen himself from the outside while he's in this state, obviously, but his mates in the Academy often said it was like watching a flash-bang go off. He drills through the enemy before him with lethal precision, cutting down barriers and shields in a haze of red and sparking wire. The force of the remaining bioborgs ends up counting a little more than a handful, and they're driven back and overrun with brutal efficiency. Alex cracks the butt of his gun across the head of the last one he sees, then shoots it in the face when it falls to the ground at his feet.

Amazing what some uncontrolled human emotion can do to a bunch of synthetics.

By some random luck, the fight has taken them right to the dig site. It's a low depression inside the cathedral-like ruins, jutting down into a chamber that looks like it may have once been a small vault before collapsing.

"This is where the intel says we should find it," Xavier says, out of breath. They're all breathing hard, but Alex is ( _embarrassed? relieved?_ ) to note that neither of his squad members seem to think his temporary decent into insanity is worth commenting on. Or maybe there's a perk to being on the team with the most crazy fuckers this side of the Milky Way.

So, when the smoke clears hey look around. They're at the place where the beacon should be.

And it's completely empty.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Alex says.

"It was right here," Darwin says. "The scientists were afraid to move it in case it got damaged. That's what they said." He starts pacing around the vacant space, kicking up dirt with his boots. "Those things must have taken it."

"Damn," Xavier whispers.

"What about Tahrenk?" Alex asks the Commander. "Have you heard from him?"

"No. Not since he checked in to say he was exploring the ruins on the other side of the dig site."

At Darwin's confused look, Alex explains. "He's with us. A metallokinetic Spectre."

Darwin pauses, then grunts and rolls his eyes. "Of course. Why not. Guess an alien Spectre can't make this any more FUBAR than it already is." He runs a hand over his HUD, and Alex can see that it's still flickering dangerously close to low battery. All their shields are nearly fried.

"The only way to get to the other side is through the monorail. That way." Darwin points past the scientist trailers just up the hill's crest overlooking the depression.

"Alright." Xavier takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. Alex is not comforted by how shaky he looks doing it, but he damn sure isn't going to say anything.

The Commander takes point as they move up through the ruins. For the time being Alex decides to keep his suit's power percentage primarily on the HUD, scanning for enemies. They've been ambushed once already. And Darwin's team had been taken out so brutally, even when they were combat-ready and alerted by the planetary assault.

They follow the trail that leads up toward where Darwin indicated the scientists were stationed. As they get closer, Alex sees what looks like smoke rising over the area. Darwin murmurs something under his breath.

"The Third battalion was up here protecting the scientists," he says as they reach the top of the hill. Several of the trailers look as though they've been blasted apart and some burned bodies are scattered along the ground. The most striking thing, however, is a line of a dozen more towering mechanical spikes, each tipped with the body of an Alliance marine.

"What the hell are those even _for_?" Darwin asks angrily. Alex can hear the barely-controlled fury in his voice. "They're already dead."

"Demoralizing the enemy?" Alex guesses. His mind flashes back to his earlier thought of the spikes as some kind of crucifix. "Organics have done it before. Maybe the machines decided to pick up the practice."

"It's just sadistic," Darwin continues as if Alex hadn't spoken. "They want to make us suffer."

Xavier doesn't speak, but instead moves forward until he's just below the nearest of the spikes. His eyes have that intense look that makes him seem like he's just as inhuman as those machines; an expressionless mask on an otherwise-boyish face, and that hideous scar that cuts right to the heart.

And then, Alex sees -

"Commander!" he whispers urgently. "Look up!"

A couple of the bodies are still moving.

Alex watches, horrified, as Xavier looks up at the moving bodies, their limbs twitching and flailing impulsively. They aren't making any noises, thank God, but the sight of them writhing is deeply unsettling. Alex bites back the urge to throw up.

The Commander seems to consider for a long moment, before he raises his rifle and fires a bullet through each of their heads.

Shocked, Alex looks to the marine standing at his side. He's expecting a big reaction. Those were Darwin's teammates that the Commander just shot, after all, and yeah they were probably - definitely, most definitely - beyond saving. Still though...

But Darwin's jaw is set, and when Xavier turns back to face them, he offers the Commander a sharp nod.

"We'll make them pay," Darwin promises.

Xavier only nods in return.

 

~*~

 

The man standing across from Tahrenk on the platform is a looming, heavily armed figure with piercing blue eyes. He wears his infamous custom-built heavy armor; the right half conventional combat gear, and the left half something made of that strange metal-looking material the bioborgs are made of. It seems like it flows over his body almost organically, hugging curves and providing a nearly impenetrable defense.

For those who first meet the Juggernaut, his armor is nearly as terrifying as his face, which he keeps painted red to enhance the neon lights of his dermal circuitry. He's the only cyborg Tahrenk's ever met who doesn't hide what they are. And that, along with his size, are what make him one of the most notorious Spectres the Council has ever appointed.

"Jakob," Juggernaut rumbles, raising his head towards his fellow Spectre. If metallokinetic voices are like flint, then the cyborg's is like iron.

Tahrenk sees a few corpses on the ground near where Juggernaut is standing, but the Spectre doesn't have his weapons drawn. As he approaches, the cyborg starts to circle around them.

"What are you doing here?" Tahrenk asks curiously.

Juggernaut lifts his hand and places it on Tahrenk's shoulder in a friendly gesture. Over the years, the two Spectre's have worked together many times. One might even say they're friends, or at least what 'friends' a Spectre can have.

"The Council thought you could use some help on this mission."

_Makes sense,_ Tahrenk supposes. _Considering the importance of this discovery._ They would have deployed their top agent to bring in something of such magnitude.

It is kind of annoying, though, that the Council would assign him a partner and not even bother to inform him. But...this mission has already gone so far off what was expected. Tahrenk won't refuse the help.

"This is bad, Cain," he says as Juggernaut walks past him. "I didn't expect to see bioborgs here." Maybe a bunch of raiders, or a gang of mercs. Literally anything but the bioborgs.

And that's right, now that he's looking at Juggernaut - there's the cyborgs to consider. Though it happened so long ago, many of them still regard the bioborg uprising as a fresh wound. "How is the Fleet going to react?"

"Don't worry," Juggernaut says. His voice is calm, controlled, and as cold as steel. "I've got everything under control."

The gun Juggernaut's carrying is a special design available to Spectre's only. The rounds it generates are modified to specifically pass through shields, carrying enough velocity and energy that it's like firing a very small rocket at light speed.

The bullet hits Tahrenk right in the back of the head.

He collapses like a broken doll, dead before he even knew he'd been shot.

 

~*~

 

Cain Marko, aka the "Juggernaut", lowers his pistol and looks down to the body lying at his feet. For a moment, if only a brief second, he feels...regret.

Only for a second, though, as the bioborgs that rush the platform get right back to work, breaking down boxes and piling up artifacts. Cain steps over Tahrenk's body, pausing to bend down and rip out the recording gear built into the metallokinetic's suit, before moving up the railway to board the train that will take them to the next station. To where the beacon is.

The bioborgs are moving about like ants, finishing their work with an efficiency that speaks to a collective hive-mind, an advantage both on and off the battlefield. He watches them for a moment, noting their alien gestures, their gait, and their vocalizations.

_Disgusting_ , he thinks. _To think they were once like us._

Disgusting, indeed. But useful. And Cain Marko is nothing if not practical.

He has a dead Spectre who was once his friend to prove it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for OC character death (I didn't want to do it, guys! I promise!) and wartime violence. 
> 
> Thanks for the support so far! Let me know what you think ;)


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